Chapter 6 The Guest of Honor

# Chapter 6: Mother, Daughter, Enemy

Morning light filtered through my curtains as I opened my eyes, my mind surprisingly clear. I'd taken Griffin's blue pills in full view of the cameras, but kept them tucked in my cheek until I could spit them out later. All night, I'd wavered between trusting him and planning my escape. By dawn, I'd settled on a third option: playing their game better than they could.

A soft knock at my door preceded Celeste's entrance. She wore a silk robe, her blonde hair perfectly arranged despite the early hour.

"You're awake," she observed, disappointment flickering across her features. "How are you feeling?"

"Groggy," I lied, forcing my voice to sound slurred. "What was in those pills?"

"Just something to help you rest." She sat on the edge of my bed, her weight barely making an impression on the mattress. "Your father will be home this afternoon. We need to discuss how to approach your... situation."

I pushed myself up against the headboard. "What situation is that?"

"Your mental health, darling." Her smile was sympathetic but her eyes remained cold. "We're all very concerned. These delusions about Griffin, breaking into my office—it's not healthy behavior."

"It wasn't a delusion," I mumbled, playing my part. "I know what happened."

Celeste patted my hand condescendingly. "Of course you think you do. That's what makes this so difficult." She stood gracefully. "I've arranged for Dr. Winters to visit this afternoon. He's an excellent psychiatrist who specializes in cases like yours."

"Cases like mine?"

"Young women under extreme stress who develop... inappropriate attachments." She moved to the window, adjusting the curtains to let in more light. "Griffin told me everything, you know. About your fantasies, your attempts to seduce him."

I swallowed my anger, remembering my role. "That's not what happened."

"It never is, from the patient's perspective." Celeste turned back to me, her expression almost pitying. "Get dressed and come down for breakfast. We'll talk more with Griffin present."

After she left, I moved carefully around the room, aware of the cameras tracking my movements. I chose clothing that reinforced my vulnerable image—a loose sweater, no makeup. Before heading downstairs, I palmed the real sedatives from the bathroom cabinet, tucking them into my pocket.

In the dining room, Griffin sat reading a newspaper while a maid poured coffee. He looked up as I entered, his expression neutral.

"Good morning," he said formally. "You look better."

"The medication helped," I replied, sliding into a chair across from him.

Celeste swept in moments later, immediately taking control of the conversation. "I was just telling Delilah about Dr. Winters' visit this afternoon. I think we'll all feel better once we have a professional assessment."

Griffin nodded. "Absolutely. Mental health is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I don't need a doctor," I protested weakly, playing the part of someone fighting a losing battle.

"That's not your decision anymore," Celeste said firmly. "As your stepmother and your father's wife, I have a responsibility to ensure you get proper care."

I noted how she emphasized both relationships—stepmother and wife—establishing her authority in the household hierarchy. I dropped my gaze to my plate, pushing food around without eating.

"Perhaps I could speak with Delilah alone," Griffin suggested. "She might be more comfortable discussing certain... feelings without an audience."

Celeste's smile tightened imperceptibly. "What a thoughtful idea. Use the sunroom—it has such calming energy."

The sunroom had something else, too—security cameras with both video and audio. Celeste wasn't leaving anything to chance.

Once alone with Griffin, I maintained my defeated posture until he spoke loudly for the benefit of the microphones.

"Delilah, your behavior has become concerning to everyone who cares about you."

While speaking, he casually pulled out his phone, typed something, and showed me the screen: *Play along. Claire received everything. Moving forward with plan.*

I nodded subtly before responding aloud. "You're all treating me like I'm crazy. I know what happened between us."

"What you think happened," Griffin corrected, typing again: *Trust me 24 hours. Follow my lead with the doctor.*

Our strange dual conversation continued, Griffin saying one thing for the cameras while communicating something entirely different through his phone. According to his messages, Claire had taken the evidence to a trusted lawyer and was preparing to move against Celeste legally. We just needed to maintain our covers until everything was in place.

"Perhaps it would be best if you cooperated with Dr. Winters," Griffin concluded aloud. "For everyone's sake."

"Fine," I conceded, letting my shoulders slump. "I'll talk to him."

Griffin's eyes met mine, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through his mask. His phone displayed one final message before he deleted it: *Tonight. Be ready.*

---

Dr. Winters arrived precisely at three o'clock—a tall, austere man with wire-rimmed glasses and a leather portfolio. He interviewed me in my father's study while Celeste and Griffin waited elsewhere, presumably giving us privacy. I knew better; Celeste would be monitoring every word.

"Your stepmother tells me you've been experiencing delusions," Dr. Winters began, pen poised over his notepad.

I hesitated, remembering Griffin's instruction to follow his lead. "I'm not sure what's real anymore," I admitted, injecting confusion into my voice.

"Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Blake."

For the next hour, I played the role of a confused young woman questioning her own reality. Dr. Winters nodded sympathetically, occasionally making notes. When we finished, he patted my hand in exactly the same condescending manner Celeste had used earlier.

"You've been under tremendous stress," he concluded. "I believe a structured therapeutic environment would be beneficial. I'll discuss options with your family."

After he left, I remained in the study, listening to the murmur of voices from the living room. I couldn't make out words, but Celeste's satisfied tone carried clearly.

The front door opened and closed, followed by my father's voice calling out. He was home early.

I moved to the doorway, watching as my father embraced Celeste. Griffin stood nearby, shaking hands with Dr. Winters as the doctor prepared to leave. My father looked tired, older than when I'd last seen him.

"Delilah?" he called, spotting me. "There you are. I came as soon as Celeste called."

I approached cautiously. "What did she tell you?"

His expression grew concerned. "That you've been struggling. That you came home for help."

Before I could respond, Celeste inserted herself between us. "Robert, Dr. Winters has some recommendations we should discuss privately."

"I want to hear what my daughter has to say first," my father insisted, surprising both of us.

Celeste recovered quickly. "Of course, darling. But perhaps Griffin could take Delilah to the garden while we speak with the doctor? Professional matters, you understand."

My father nodded distractedly, already being guided toward his office by Celeste and Dr. Winters. Griffin approached me, offering his arm with formal politeness.

"Shall we?" he asked, loud enough for others to hear.

In the garden, we strolled along paths visible from the house windows but partially obscured by ornamental trees. Griffin maintained a respectful distance, but his voice was urgent.

"Your father's arrival complicates things. Celeste will push for immediate action now."

"What kind of action?"

"The facility she's chosen is in Switzerland. Private, discreet, and completely under her influence." His jaw tightened. "Once you're there, it would be nearly impossible to get you out."

Fear gripped me. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning. The doctor is signing commitment papers as we speak."

I stopped walking, fighting to maintain my composure for any watching eyes. "Then we need to move tonight."

Griffin nodded almost imperceptibly. "Claire and the lawyer will be at the Plaza Hotel at midnight with the evidence. We just need to get you there."

"What about my father?"

"That's the complication. Celeste won't let him out of her sight now that he's home." Griffin's eyes scanned the garden, checking for observers. "She knows he's your weak point—and his health is hers."

"What do you mean?"

"The cardiac episodes I mentioned? They're real, but potentially induced. I found medication in Celeste's private bathroom—beta-blockers that, in the wrong dosage, can trigger symptoms mimicking heart problems."

Horror washed over me. "She's been drugging him?"

"Subtly. Just enough to make him dependent on her care, to justify her control over his medical decisions." Griffin's expression darkened. "It's her specialty—using legitimate health concerns as weapons."

Like the "sedatives" she'd left for me. I reached into my pocket, feeling the pills I'd taken from the bathroom.

"We need to get him away from her too," I insisted.

"One step at a time. First, we need to secure your freedom and the evidence."

As we turned back toward the house, I noticed Celeste watching us from my father's study window. Even at this distance, I could feel the calculation in her gaze.

"She suspects you," I murmured.

"Let her suspect," Griffin replied quietly. "She still believes her hold over me is stronger than anything else."

"And is it?"

His eyes met mine, intense and clear. "Not anymore."

---

Dinner that evening was excruciating. My father, clearly briefed by Celeste and the doctor, treated me with careful concern, as if I might shatter at any moment. Celeste dominated the conversation, detailing the "exclusive wellness retreat" she'd arranged for me.

"It's not a hospital, darling," she assured my father. "More like a spa with therapeutic services. Delilah will be much happier there."

"If you think it's best," my father replied, looking to me with worried eyes. "I just want you well, sweetheart."

I forced a smile. "I know, Dad."

Griffin remained mostly silent, occasionally offering supportive comments that reinforced Celeste's narrative while watching me with unreadable eyes.

After dinner, Celeste suggested an early night. "We have a long journey tomorrow. The plane leaves at ten."

"I'll help Delilah pack," she added, linking her arm through mine with false affection.

In my room, Celeste methodically went through my closet, selecting "appropriate" clothing for my stay while delivering what amounted to a victory speech.

"This really is for the best," she said, folding a sweater with precise movements. "You've been so confused lately, making wild accusations. At the facility, you'll have time to... recalibrate your perspective."

I sat on the bed, watching her. "Why do you hate me so much?"

The question seemed to surprise her. She paused, considering me with genuine curiosity. "Hate is such an emotional word. This isn't about feelings, Delilah. It's about positions."

"Positions?"

"In life, in business, in family." She continued packing, her movements efficient. "Your position as Robert's daughter gives you certain... advantages that I've worked very hard to obtain. It's nothing personal."

"It feels personal when you're having me committed to a psychiatric facility."

Celeste smiled thinly. "That's because you're still thinking in emotional terms. This is chess, not a soap opera."

"And Griffin? Is he just another chess piece?"

Something flickered in her eyes—possessiveness, perhaps even a hint of genuine feeling. "Griffin is... a valuable partner. He understands the game."

"Does he? Or is he playing his own?"

Celeste laughed, the sound genuinely amused. "Oh, darling. Do you still believe he has feelings for you? How touching." She closed the suitcase with a decisive snap. "Griffin knows where his interests lie. With me."

As if summoned by his name, Griffin knocked and entered, carrying a glass of water and a pill bottle.

"Dr. Winters suggested she take a mild sedative tonight," he explained. "To help with anxiety about tomorrow."

Celeste nodded approvingly. "Excellent idea. Make sure she takes it."

She brushed past Griffin, her hand lingering on his chest in a possessive gesture. At the door, she turned back to me. "Sleep well, Delilah. Tomorrow begins your... recovery."

After she left, Griffin approached with the water and pill. "The cameras," he murmured, nodding subtly toward the corners of the room.

I understood immediately. Taking the pill and water, I made a show of swallowing the medication while actually palming it—a trick I'd perfected with the morning dose.

"Good," Griffin said loudly. "That should help you rest."

He leaned closer, adjusting my pillows, and whispered, "Midnight. Wear dark clothing. I'll disable the cameras for three minutes."

After he left, I lay fully dressed beneath my covers, watching the minutes tick by on my bedside clock. At precisely 11:45, I heard soft footsteps in the hallway—not Griffin's, but Celeste's distinctive gait.

She paused outside my door, then continued to what I knew was her destination: Griffin's room at the end of the hall.

My heart sank. Despite everything he'd told me, despite the plan we'd constructed, doubt crept in. What if this was another elaborate deception? What if Celeste and Griffin were laughing at my naiveté even now?

At 11:55, I slipped from my bed and changed into dark jeans and a black sweater. I tucked the sedatives I'd collected into my pocket—evidence of Celeste's methods.

Midnight came. The small red lights on the security cameras blinked once, then went dark.

I counted in my head—one hundred eighty seconds to freedom. I opened my door silently, stepping into the darkened hallway. From the direction of Griffin's room, I heard voices—Celeste's silky tone followed by his deeper response.

Pushing aside the sickening jealousy, I moved swiftly toward the service stairs. Ninety seconds left. The house was quiet, most of the staff dismissed for the night as part of Griffin's arrangements.

I had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the lights suddenly flooded on. Celeste stood at the main staircase, wearing a silk robe, her expression triumphant.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, echoing her words from the kitchen confrontation.

My heart pounded. Where was Griffin? Had he betrayed me again?

"I needed air," I said, falling back on our previous excuse.

"Dressed like that? With your passport in your pocket?" Celeste descended the stairs with deliberate steps. "I knew Griffin couldn't be trusted. Not where you're concerned."

"Where is he?" I demanded, fear gripping me.

Celeste smiled coldly. "Indisposed. Those sedatives you've been so carefully avoiding? He wasn't as fortunate."

Horror washed over me. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing permanent. Just enough to ensure he won't interfere with our early departure." She reached the bottom of the stairs, blocking my path to the front door. "The car is already waiting. We're leaving for Switzerland now, not in the morning."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"No?" Celeste raised an elegant eyebrow. "Then perhaps I should wake your father. He's been having such trouble sleeping lately... his heart can't take much more stress."

The threat was clear. Go quietly or she'd escalate her manipulation of my father's health.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, playing for time, searching for options.

"I told you before—this is chess." She moved closer, her perfume enveloping me—that distinctive, cloying scent I'd always hated. "And I've spent too long positioning my pieces to let an emotional outburst ruin everything."

Something about her perfume tickled a memory—the same scent had permeated my room when I'd started experiencing "emotional instability" months ago. I remembered Griffin's words about Celeste's methods, about using substances to manipulate.

"It was you," I realized aloud. "My 'episodes,' my 'instability'—you've been drugging me all along."

Celeste's smile widened. "Very good, Delilah. I wondered if you'd figure it out." She gestured to the perfume atomizer on a nearby table. "A custom blend. Quite innovative delivery method, don't you think? Absorbed through the skin, odorless to everyone but the wearer."

"You're insane," I whispered.

"No, darling. I'm thorough." She reached for the atomizer. "And it's time for another dose, I think. Something stronger to ensure your cooperation."

As she lifted the perfume bottle, I made my decision. Lunging forward, I knocked it from her hand, sending it crashing to the floor. Glass shattered, liquid splashing across the marble.

"You little bitch," Celeste hissed, her composed mask slipping for the first time.

"Game over," I said, backing toward the front door.

She laughed, the sound chilling. "Hardly. Did you really think I'd keep all my resources in one pretty bottle?"

From her robe pocket, she withdrew a small syringe. "Old-fashioned, but effective."

Fear surged through me as I glanced desperately around for a weapon, an escape route—anything. As Celeste advanced, her reflection caught in the hallway mirror behind her. For a moment, I saw myself in her predatory stance, in the cold calculation of her eyes.

Was this what I would become if I continued this game of manipulation and revenge? Another version of the woman I hated most?

The realization crystallized my resolve. I wouldn't beat Celeste by becoming her. I'd win by exposing her for exactly what she was.

"This is the last time you'll threaten anyone in this house," I said, my voice steady as I reached for my phone.

Celeste's eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you're calling? The police? With what evidence?"

"Not the police." I held up my phone, showing her the active recording. "I've been streaming our entire conversation to Claire and a very interested lawyer at the Plaza Hotel. The one handling my father's company restructuring."

Shock flashed across her perfect features. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I turned the phone so she could see the live connection. "Every word, Celeste. Your admission about drugging me, about drugging my father, your threats—all of it, live to the people who can do something about it."

Her composure cracked further. "Griffin put you up to this."

"No. This part was my idea." I took a step toward her, no longer afraid. "You were right about one thing—this is chess. But you forgot that pawns can become queens if they make it across the board."

The front door burst open behind me. Griffin stood there, disheveled but very much awake, with two security guards I didn't recognize.

"It's over, Celeste," he said quietly. "The lawyer has everything—the documents, the recordings, the drugs you've been using. Robert has already been informed."

Celeste's eyes darted between us, calculating even now. "Robert will never believe you over me. I've spent years—"

"Manipulating him?" My father's voice came from the top of the stairs. He stood there in his robe, face pale but eyes clear. "I heard everything, Celeste. Every word."

As the security guards moved toward Celeste, she maintained her dignity, chin high. "You'll regret this," she said, looking directly at me. "Both of you."

"The only thing I regret," I replied, "is not seeing you for what you were sooner."

As they led her away, I caught my reflection once more in the hallway mirror. For a brief, disorienting moment, I thought I saw Celeste's face superimposed over mine—a reminder of how close I'd come to adopting her methods, her worldview.

Then Griffin was beside me, his hand warm on my shoulder, and the illusion shattered.

"It's really over?" I asked.

"The legal part is just beginning," he admitted. "But yes, her power over you, over your father—that's finished."

I turned to him, studying his face in the harsh light. "And us? What game are we playing now?"

His eyes held mine, clear and direct. "No more games, Delilah. No more roles or strategies." He took my hand, his touch gentle. "Just us, figuring out who we are without all this between us."

Behind us, my father descended the stairs slowly, looking shaken but determined. There would be explanations needed, trust to rebuild, wounds to heal. The path forward wouldn't be simple.

But as I stood there, between the man who had betrayed me and then saved me, and the father I'd nearly lost, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years: the possibility of truth.

"No more games," I agreed, squeezing Griffin's hand. "Let's start there."